Raven Saint

by Marylu Tyndall

  Which was why Rafe must seek out Mademoiselle Grace straightaway. It was time to risk his heart again. He had been betrayed by everyone he’d loved, but maybe, just maybe, Grace would be different. Perhaps her God truly did exist and by following Him, she had become incapable of dishonesty and betrayal.

  Donning his waistcoat, boots, and baldric, he strapped on his weapons and headed out the door when Monsieur Fletcher nearly barreled into him. “A ship, Capitaine!” the man said in an urgent tone. Setting aside his task for now, Rafe followed him above.

  “Where away?” Rafe shouted as he burst forth upon the deck.

  “Two points off the starboard stern!” brayed a sailor.

  Plucking out his spyglass as he went, Rafe leapt upon the quarterdeck and drew it to his eye before reaching the helm. Only a hint of the cool night remained in the morning wind that whipped through his hair. He focused the glass on a trio of sails, their bellies gorged with wind, not more than a league off their stern.

  Monsieur Thorn appeared beside him.

  “What do you make of her?” Rafe handed him the glass and braced himself on the deck as the ship pitched over a swell. Still angry at his first mate for offering to help Grace escape at the deserted island, Rafe decided to let the matter go and relieve the man of his duties the next time they weighed anchor at some port. Sans doute the man suffered from a concern for Mademoiselle Grace’s welfare. How could Rafe blame him for that?

  Thorn pressed the spyglass to his eye and shrugged. “A merchant, perhaps? She flies the ensign of France.” He lowered the glass and squinted into the rising sun. “Nothing to cause alarm, I am sure.”

  Rafe eyed him curiously. “Then why does she give chase?”

  “Perhaps she needs our help.”

  “I see no signal de détresse.” Rafe snatched the glass back, examining the narrow lines of the hull, the shape and position of her sails. At least she was not one of Woodes’s two ships that had pursued them earlier. Sacre mer, was every ship in the Caribbean after him?

  Lowering the glass, he turned to Thorn, surprised by the grin tugging at his first mate’s lips. “All hands aloft. Loose topgallants. Clear away the jib.”

  “But our main-topmast, Captain.” Thorn seemed in no hurry to obey.

  “I am aware of the damage, Monsieur Thorn. Raise what sails we have left.” Rafe ground his teeth together and gripped the hilt of his rapier. “And have Monsieur Porter clear the tackles and load the guns.”

  “Zooks, Captain, is that quite necessary?” Thorn chuckled and brushed specks of dried salt from his coat.

  Scowling, Rafe turned a cold eye upon his first mate, a man who had never hesitated to obey him. “Do as I say, Thorn, or I’ll find someone who will.”

  The first mate touched his hat, gave Rafe a grin laced with indignation and turned to bellow orders to the crew. Ignoring Thorn’s impertinence, Rafe narrowed his eyes upon the ship that dared to intrude upon his waters.

  Spyglass leapt into his arms and draped herself over his right shoulder. Purring filled his ears, and Rafe stroked her fur, releasing a familiar scent that delighted him. “So you have been with the mademoiselle.” He grinned. “I do not blame you.” His thoughts shot to the look of pain on Grace’s face when he had called her a shrew. He had not meant to cause her any suffering, but only to cloak his true feelings. But he must not think of that now. For now he must shake this snake from his leg—this ship that dared to pursue him.

  An hour crept by, and Rafe still was unable to determine either the ship’s identity or her purpose.

  The sun climbed midway between wave and topmast, and already the heat sent streams of sweat down his neck and back. The thunderous snap of sails glutting with wind sounded above. Shielding his eyes, he glanced at the line of men balancing across the foretop yard, as they adjusted sails to catch the shifting trade winds. At Rafe’s direction, Monsieur Atton altered course repeatedly in an attempt shake off the nagging ship. But to no avail. “Zut alors, what does le irksome mongrel want?”

  Rafe shrugged off his coat and tossed it to the deck by the railing, allowing the salty breeze to cool him. He stormed toward the taffrail and raised his spyglass again.

  “She gains on us,” Thorn shouted from behind him.

  “Je sais!” Rafe wondered at the lack of concern in this first mate’s voice.

  Father Alers approached and squinted in the sunlight. The wrinkles around his eyes folded like the threads of an old rope.

  Rafe adjusted the glass, bringing the ship into clearer view. A bark. Three-masted, fore- and aft-rigged. The French flag flapped lazily upon her bowsprit.

  Shifting the telescope aft, Rafe focused on the ensign upon the mainmast. His heart leapt in his throat.

  The figure of two black lions battling against the backdrop of a red coat of arms. The Dubois crest. Rafe lowered the glass and slammed it shut. “Sacre mer, my father’s ship.”

  “Votre père?” Standing at the quarterdeck railing beside Rafe, Father Alers flinched, his gray hair puffing around his head like a turkey displaying its feathers.

  “Oui.” Rafe’s blood boiled.

  Father Alers grabbed the glass and examined the ship himself. Lowering it, he scratched his gray beard. “I suppose he wants his wife back.”

  “He can have her,” Rafe spat; then he marched to the quarterdeck railing.

  “Egad, your father. How on earth did he find you?” Thorn appeared beside him.

  “I wonder.” Rafe shot an accusing glare at his first mate. In light of his impudent behavior toward Rafe, Thorn’s recent deception regarding Grace began to reek of treachery rather than mere concern for the mademoiselle.

  Rafe turned to the helmsman. “Hard to larboard, Monsieur Atton. Let ’s keep aweather of him. Perhaps he’ll grow bored as he does with most of his intrigues.”

  “Hard to larboard, Capitaine,” Monsieur Atton replied and adjusted the wheel.

  Le Champion swept over the rolling waves under a full press of sails, at least the sails that remained. Rafe cursed. With his main-topmast damaged, he’d have trouble outrunning his father’s ship.

  “Perhaps you should see what he wants?” Monsieur Thorn lifted one brow.

  “If he has come for his wife, I am happy to hand her over. Otherwise, I have nothing to say to him.”

  Rafe marched to the bulwarks, annoyed with his first mate’s cavalier attitude. A gust of wind struck him, yanking strands of his hair from his tie. The ship bucked, and he gripped the railing until the wood bit into his fingers. Rafe had spent a childhood buried beneath his father’s shadow, and the next several years of his life digging out from under it. Aside from his last unavoidable visit, he had vowed never to see the man again—the man who ruled the Dubois estate and most of Port-de-Paix with the iron scepter of cruelty.

  But the sea was Rafe’s territory. Was it not enough the man had stolen Rafe’s childhood? Was it not enough he had stolen his fiancée? Did he want the sea as well?

  Rafe grunted and gripped the pommel of his rapier. Whatever mischief his father was about, it would only end in disaster. Of that he was sure.

  As the minutes passed, Rafe grew more agitated. His father’s ship furled tops and mainsails, stripped to mizzen and sprit, and was now within one half mile of Le Champion, so close Rafe could make out her crew, as well as the yellow plume fluttering atop his father’s cocked hat. Yet still Rafe waited. Waited for a signal to parley, a salute of the flag, anything to announce the man’s intentions.

  Finally, when the ship sailed just a quarter mile off their starboard stern, the flag atop her foremast dipped in a signal requesting a parley. Rafe narrowed his eyes, his gut churning with distrust. “Return the signal, but ensure our guns are loaded and ready. And man the swivels,” Rafe ordered Mr. Thorn.

  “But ’tis obvious he means us no harm,” the first mate replied.

  Rafe’s jaw hardened, and blood surged to his fists. “Do as I say!”

  “As you wish, Captain.” Thorn’s voice
carried a sneering bite as he touched his hat and left.

  Rafe shook his head. What was wrong with the man today?

  Father Alers grunted and laid a hand on Rafe’s arm. “Be patient, my boy.”

  “Never fear.” Rafe sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. “Regardless that my father has never given me a reason to trust him, I will not fire upon him without cause. I shall wait to see what he wants.”

  His father’s ship plunged through the turquoise sea, sending a foamy squall over her bow as she tacked alee then came even on Le Champion’s keel. Without warning, her larboard gun ports popped open one by one and the charred muzzles of ten guns spewed out from them like ravenous black tongues.

  Father Alers gave a sordid chuckle. “Your wait is over, Capitaine.”

  “Zut alors.” Rafe swerved on his heels. A string of rapid orders exploded from his lips, sending his men flying across the deck. “Helm’s lee! Adieu-va!” he bellowed. Above him the sailors scrambled to let go the foresheets.

  “Rise tacks and sheets!” Rafe braced himself on the deck as Le Champion, with straining cordage and creaking blocks, swung to larboard. She pitched over a swell, and foamy spray swept over the deck, slapping Rafe’s boots. Lugsails flapped thunderously until the sails caught the wind in an ominous snap. Le Champion veered promptly about on an eastern tack, flashing the pursuing ship her rudder.

  Boom! A volcano of hot metal fired from his father’s ship, sending the air aquiver.

  “All hands down!” Rafe dove to the deck. The crunch and snap of wood grated over his ears, and he looked up to see a gaping hole of jagged shards marring the taffrail. Rafe jumped to his feet. The other shots plunged harmlessly into the churning wake off their stern. He released a sigh and lifted a contemptuous gaze toward his father’s ship.

  Ten puffs of gray smoke curled upward from her hull like snakes beneath a charmer’s flute. His father had fired upon him. After requesting a parley. Had the man no decency?

  “Bring her about!” Rafe shouted to Monsieur Thorn, who was struggling to rise. “And ready the larboard guns.”

  The ship yawed widely to port as Rafe leapt down the quarterdeck ladder and marched across the main deck. Fury fanned his hatred into a roaring flame. His father may have oppressed him in his youth. He may have belittled him and defeated him, but Rafe was no longer a little boy, and he’d be keelhauled and strung from the yardarm before he’d allow his father to best him upon the seas.

  Bracing his boots upon the slanted deck, Rafe glanced aloft as his crew worked furiously to complete another tack. Pride swelled within him at their skill and efficiency. He had taught them well. In a few minutes they’d be in position to deliver a well-deserved broadside to his father’s ship.

  A ship that now floundered in an effort to veer away from Le Champion as the crew no doubt sensed their imminent danger. Rafe grinned. He glanced over his shoulder. From the quarterdeck, Monsieur Thorn gazed at their enemy with the look of expectancy, rather than anger. Father Alers made his way over the teetering deck to Rafe.

  Le Champion rose and swooped over the turquoise swells. The creak of her blocks and the rattle of flapping sails filled the air along with the silken rustle of the sea along the hull. The sting of gunpowder tainted the morning breeze. Rafe ordered top and studding sails reefed as they swung around and hove to, athwart the ship’s bow.

  His father’s crew darted frantically across the deck and up into the ratlines, attempting to find the wind and turn their ship. Amidst the chaos, her larboard guns had not been reloaded and still hung from their ports in impotence.

  Rafe had them. “Monsieur Thorn!” he bellowed.

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “On my order.”

  “On your order, Captain.” Thorn shifted his stance, not meeting Rafe’s gaze.

  Facing forward, Rafe studied his prey. Within seconds, they’d be in perfect position to loose a broadside. Within seconds, he would finally beat his father, sink his ship, and take the man prisoner. A tingle of elation ran through him at the prospect.

  He opened his mouth to give the order.

  “Wait, Captain. They raise a white flag,” Monsieur Thorn said

  Rafe glanced at the white cloth climbing toward the blue sky.

  Father Alers turned to him with a look of censure. “They surrender, Rafe.”

  “He surrenders because he knows I have the advantage and could blast him from the water.” Rafe grabbed his baldric. Yet a thread of relief wove through his knotted insides. No matter what his father had done to him, no matter the beatings, the humiliation, the belittling, the hatred, no matter the way he treated Rafe’s mother, it was wrong to fire upon one’s father.

  Besides, Grace would not approve. Scanning the deck, he searched for a glimpse of her, but she was nowhere to be seen. She had admonished him to be a better man than he was. And right now, he wanted more than anything to prove to her that he could be. He turned around. Off their larboard side, his father’s ship slipped through the sea, already positioned board by board. On her foredeck, the man who sired him stood awaiting his fate. If Rafe intended to loose a broadside, he must do so immediately or forfeit the chance to prove that his father had been wrong about him.

  To prove that Rafe was not a failure.

  Rafe clenched his fists until they hurt. “Stand down.”

  Mr. Thorn smiled. “Very well, Captain.”

  Shoving aside the angst churning in his gut, Rafe released a ragged sigh. “Arm the men and then signal my father to come aboard.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Grace woke with a start. Pain burned through her head. Her lips ached. The taste of sweat-laden cloth filled her mouth. Why couldn’t she move her hands and legs? She sprang up, and her head crashed into something hard. A crate? A barrel? Hard to tell in the darkness. Panic took over. She wrestled to free her hands, but the more she struggled the more her wrists stung until something warm seeped from them. Blood. She tried to scream, but her voice came out a muffled groan from behind the cloth stuffed in her mouth. Lord? As her mind cleared, she tried to recall how she ended up in this dark prison.

  Mr. Thorn. The last thing she remembered was bouncing off his thick chest and the furtive look of treachery on his face.

  The mutiny! They planned to mutiny!

  Inching her backside over the rough planks of the deck, Grace used her bound hands to locate the door. She must be in some kind of storage room. She must get to Rafe. She must warn him. She had no idea how long she’d been in here. Lifting her legs, she kicked the door. Pound. Pound. Pound. She groaned a muted call for help. For several minutes, she repeated the process until her legs ached and her throat swelled.

  Boom! Boom!

  Cannon blasts fired in the distance. Grace’s breathing took on a frenzied pace. Who was firing at them? Footsteps sounded on the deck above her like methodical drums. Muffled shouts and curses trickled down to taunt her ears. Grace screamed again and thumped her feet against the door. Nothing.

  She would not give up. She must warn Rafe before it was too late.

  ***

  Within minutes, Monsieur Dubois and several of his crew had boarded a cockboat and with oars to water, made quick work of the distance between the two ships. Rafe’s father stood at the bow with arms at his hips and yellow feather fluttering from his hat as if he were the conqueror of the world.

  Familiar with his father’s ostentatious display, Rafe ignored him, though he could not deny the fury that pulsed through every vein. “Steady, men.” His piercing gaze scoured his crew as they stood armed with rapiers, pistols, and axes.

  The cockboat thumped against the hull, and two of Monsieur Dubois’s crew climbed over the bulwarks. Each gripped a pistol in one hand and drew their sword with the other. Three of Rafe’s crew took a step forward, taunting the men with their blades and angry curses. Rafe stayed them with a lift of his hand.

  Finally, his father clambered aboard, his face plump and red. “Infernal ladder,” he grunted; then
glancing at Rafe’s crew, he lengthened his stance, adjusted his velvet waistcoat, and replaced his look of frustration with a veneer of confident insolence. He turned cold eyes toward his son. “No stomach for a fight, Rafe?” He waved a ruffled handkerchief in the breeze. “So much like your mother.”

  “If it’s a fight you want, Père, it’s a fight I’ll give you. My men are well trained,” Rafe replied, his statement confirmed by thunderous grunts behind him.

  Monsieur Dubois shot his beady gaze across the deck as the remainder of his men jumped over the bulwarks and joined him. That made twelve men to Rafe’s thirty.

  “Have your men stand down, Father. I seek no battle between us.” And that was no lie. He wanted his father to state his business, take his wife, and be gone. Rafe glanced across the deck, wondering why Grace had not come above but was thankful when he did not see her.

  Monsieur Dubois tugged on the white swath of silk at his neck and directed his gaze to Mr. Thorn. The first mate shook his head and looked down.

  “Very well, Rafe.” Monsieur Dubois gestured for his men to lower their weapons.

  Rafe glared at his father, questioning his decision to allow him aboard. “You should thank me for sparing your life, Father. For it was only our relation and our common bond to ma mère which stood between me and the cannons that would have sunk you to the depths.”

  “C’est vrai? I am more inclined to believe it was your cowardice that failed you.” His father laid a hand on his hip and took a turn about the deck. “How you have succeeded as a mercenary I shall never know. Well, perhaps that is why you saw fit to steal my wife from me. Intending to sell her as well?”